07 March, 2007

Slow day at the shop; my mind wanders

Are there people you know, or see regularly, that you can't fathom pooping? I know a lot of people like that (names withheld to protect the constipated), but it's kind of a silly thought to have in general. I mean, the book is right. If you don't poop you die. I'm unsure what all the taboo and fuss is about.

It would be great if people could feel normal simply acknowledging to others, as well as themselves, that defecation occurs. I know I relish my time enthroned in the bathroom. That's where I store my ESPN: The Magazine and The Week magazines. It's the only quiet room in my apartment with a sitting place. Plus nobody thinks I'm odd for reading with no pants on like they do when I'm sitting in Rittenhouse Square.

What I'm really getting at is, why do we have that inherent feeling of guilt whenever we excuse ourselves to the bathroom knowing that it's a #2, not a #1? It's the same thing that keeps people in the stall until everyone else vacates the bathroom. Not me, clearly, but some people. If I hear the rustle of toilet paper accompanied by a long pause, I generally make it a point to stay in the bathroom until the occupant exits the stall, simply to act as if nothing is out of the ordinary (it isn't) and hopefully break down their fear of stall-exiting.

There's no reason to feel guilty if you excuse yourself to the bathroom in the company of others and take a little extra time. It just means that you're running on a different internal clock. No harm done, just be sure to wash your hands. There's no need to feel embarrassed upon returning, because secretly everyone in your party is relieved that THEY didn't have to poop during the outing. The reason people feel guilty is because they know other people know they were pooping. My response: so what? It happens, no guilt need be associated.

Anyhow all shit talking aside, you know you have a good, or at least decent job, when you forget it's payday and are met with a pleasant surprise when the owner hands you your week's earnings personally.

Yesterday was a dandy at the shop in terms of the clientèle that breezed through. Oh, and chicken salad returned today, thankfully. I felt absolutely famished yesterday without it. But on to the story.

On about 5 pm, a woman who had been sitting in the shop drinking a Tranquility blend tea since before I started working (3 pm) made a call on her cell. She dialed someone named Frank, and spent the next 40 or so minutes braying in a desperately neurotic manner with Frank, for whom I feel the utmost sympathy.

The woman was discussing some sort of lawsuit for which she could not afford counsel, something to do with pensions or wrongful dismissal or something. Didn't catch it all. During the course of the conversation, she paced around and around the shop, alighting at times on the counter directly in front of the register and creating a line at one point for people waiting to order.

"I'm a big dumb idiot" she loudly proclaimed at one point. I kind of wanted to help this woman, but I am not really able to give out free legal advise, you know? At the same time I wanted her to take her loud conversation elsewhere, as she was gathering a collection of angry looks from the other customers in the shop.

"I have a headache, do you have a headache Frank?" she queried her captive audience, who I imagined had her on speaker phone as he watched Pardon the Interruption at 5:30. Yes, I wanted to answer, and I will too shortly, stemming from the fact that I can't hear people ordering drinks over your braying. This must be what it's like to work at Tiki Bobs, only this woman was more bearable.

Mercifully she decided that her headache and legal woes were to grand to continue the conversation, and she ended the call. Moments later she packed her computer and left. Now I ask you: why couldn't she have packed her damn computer 40 minutes prior and made her loud calls outside the environs of a quiet coffee shop?

There is a large gentleman who resides upstairs from the shop, and periodically he takes to stomping around his apartment, causing the lights suspended by fishing line filament in the shop to sway. I wonder if he ever comes in here, being that he lives upstairs. Since I don't know what he looks like, I can only assume he's in here on occasion but hasn't announced his upstairs residency to me yet.

On a completely unrelated note, I really dislike the band The Arcade Fire, and will not make purchase of their new album. I will listen to it in its entirety for the purpose of re-affirming my dislike, however.AdamRiff.com has had a litany of great posts up in the past few days. What a great blog.